A Fickle Heart
by Candid-Canoe
Summary: Logan Mitchell needs a new heart. When he gets one, he finds he's taken possession of more than he expected. Kogan/AU/Slash
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: So this first chapter is pretty short, subsequent chapters will be longer. Guys, I don't think I'll be updating this as quickly as I have with my past multi-chaps. I've been working through some real life dilemmas, but I'm hoping by posting this and getting some feedback I'll be inspired.**

**This one is for Renee (Rendall on this site. Check her out. She's got some lovely stories). It's her story, her idea, her plot. So thanks for the lovely idea, Renee. I hope you like it.**

**Okay, so, this deals with a bit of whimsy, a bit of **_**magic **_**and fate, so keep an open mind here, folks.**

**Oh, and, no promises of a happy ending. We'll just have to see.**

* * *

"_When will I see you again?" _

The words fall from Logan's lips in that spot between sleep and wakefulness, the rough timbre of them pulling him to full consciousness. He's thankful to have the breathing tube out, finally, relieved he can speak at all.

"When will I see you again?" he whispers for the second time, softer now as though he needs to repeat the sentence again and again until he understands. He doesn't though.

"What?" a quiet voice asks, soft and full of concern.

"Mom?"

"Yes, sweetie. How are you feeling?"

Logan begins to realize he's in the hospital, facing away from his mother as bright, white light streams through the window. He blinks a dozen times to clear his vision, focusing on a few green leaves on a tree branch dancing in the summer sun. There's something to remember, but it's so hard to think with his brain in a fog and a pain in his chest.

"I think I'm fine," he rasps, moving a sluggish hand to his torso, finding it swaddled in bandages. He turns his head to see his mother, Joanna, staring at him with teary smile.

"You'll be better than fine now, Logan," Joanna replies, reaching out to clasp her son's hand.

Logan makes a lazy attempt to return her smile but it must be more of a grimace.

"Are you in pain?"

"No, just," he takes a deep breath, starkly aware of the thump in his chest, "just a little woozy." Is the rhythm the same? Will the borrowed heart speed to the same staccato thuds when a new trauma is rushed into the E.R.? Probably not, if Logan trusts the most recent research.

Logan always trusts the most recent research.

But he's feeling more bizarre than he could have imagined, and he wonders what kind of person he's acquired this secondhand organ from. There's this wistful feeling too, like something new circulating from the four chambers and filling him up: a niggling sense of melancholy and aching want.

Maybe this heart has loved fiercely.

But Logan doesn't believe in that kind of love - the kind from the heart. The heart is an engine, pushing fuel to sustain life. Nothing lives inside of it but blood and muscle and tissue. A person needs a heart to survive, as he knows all too well.

The most fucked up part is that Logan has always been ridiculously healthy. His parents made sure he ate three squares a day growing up, limited junk food to holidays and special occasions, and enrolled him in gymnastics classes at the age of four. Once in his teens, Logan jogged every day before school, a habit which followed him to college, his residency and into the workforce. He did a hundred sit-ups every other day, unless the day happened to fall on a Sunday.

He ignored the chest pains far too long; in fact, if Logan were his own patient he would have chastised him to no end for ignoring so many warning signs. But Logan is barely thirty years old. Heart attacks aren't very common at his age, especially considering he was twenty-eight when it happened.

Logan's mom tried to joke, tried to lighten things by saying maybe Logan should've exercised his heart more, fallen in and out of love once or twice. He didn't think it was funny.

For the millionth time, Logan says, "You didn't have to come all this way."

"There are these wonderful flying machines called _airplanes, _Logie Bear. They make the trip from Texas to Minnesota pretty simple." Logan rolls his eyes as the use of his nickname as his mother adds, "Not that you would know, as rarely as you make the trip home."

"Mom, you know I'm busy and with all these issues I've been having—"

"It's fine. Sorry, _Logan, _I don't want to get you all riled so soon after surgery. I know it's been tough. But who else would be here for you?" Joanna looks at Logan with a reprimanding eye, causing Logan to sigh and turn back to the window.

"If I don't have time to go home what makes you think I'd have time to find a boyfriend?" Logan asks.

"What about Carlos?"

Logan snorts. "Carlos is straight, Mom."

"I know. I meant, why isn't he here?"

Carlos is Logan's best friend, a police officer by title, a hospital clown by choice. He visits the sick kids in the children's ward and is one of the only people in the world who have seen Logan smile. It would be hard not to, especially when Carlos is wearing floppy shoes and a big red nose a majority of the time, the white of his grin a shocking contrast to the dark skin of his face.

"I told him he'd better not dare worry over me," Logan replies.

"That explains the balloons then," Joanna says. Logan turns his head enough to take in the brightly colored orbs quietly floating in the waft of air coming through the vents. "The card just says _Worried anyway. Get well soon or I'll scream._"

A laugh bursts from Logan, causing a pain to flare in his chest, the laugh quickly turning to a groan.

"Where is that nurse? Isn't she supposed to be keeping a close eye on you? This is the ICU, for goodness sake," Logan's mom says, and she's gone before he can stop her.

Logan's mother seems to be gone ages, and he finds himself slipping back into an almost dream state as he thinks about his new, used heart. He knows most heart transplant recipients are encouraged to write letters to the family of the donor - an expression of gratitude to provide solace. How can he even begin something like that?

He's thinking about what to write, drifting in and out, hearing things without fully comprehending them. Maybe he falls asleep and maybe he's still awake, but he's feeling this niggling thing burning in his chest - not physical pain but more deeply rooted. It's like he falls into this baptismal of regret and guilt and Logan is breathing it in until he needs to scream for air. But he opens his mouth and only finds any sound he would have made cut off by angry words in a voice indistinguishable as anything other than furious. There's rage and pain and sobs and ragged breaths, but not from Logan. No, he's drowning in foreign emotions, regret and guilt, unable to make a sound, and it's all so unfamiliar Logan thinks this must be a nightmare.

Logan's eyes shoot open and he's gasping. He has this feeling he's been unconscious for hours, but it couldn't have been more than a moment or two, because his mother is approaching with a smiling nurse.

His lips form the words, his breath still so quick he doesn't make any sound other than panting, but, still, he mouths the phrase lingering in his mind.

_When will I see you again?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews, you wonderful people. And I'm a terrible person for going so long on this, but I did warn you! Thanks for being patient with me. If you have a moment, let me know what you think so far, and if there are any question, don't hesitate to ask. Some of your thoughts on the first bit were super interesting. **

**Oh, and I don't remember if I put a disclaimer on the first chapter, but I obviously don't own Big Time Rush.**

* * *

"It's been almost a year. I think we can lower the dosage of your immunosuppressants. We haven't seen any signs of rejection in a while. Do you feel comfortable with that, Logan?"

Logan looks at Dr. Graves a long time. Lowering the amount of medication he takes would mean he could probably go back to full-time in the E.R., but he still hasn't reached the point where he feels comfortable with the new heart, like it's been fighting with him every step of the way. Strange flutters and deep aches, but nothing he can put a finger on. Nothing that's been detected by medical means, save one occasion. He knows he isn't imaging the tickle of hummingbird wings in his chest, an odd want to get in his car and drive to an unknown destination.

Finally, Logan answers. "Um, yeah, sure. I trust your judgment."

The old doctor chortles, glancing at Logan fondly. "What's wrong, young man? You know, you can object. You're a doctor, as well. Sometimes, you have to trust your gut."

Without thinking, Logan flips open the file in his hands - the file on him, his test results, his progress. He's reading through the biopsy results from the one time his body thoroughly began rejecting the heart.

It had been the beginning of hockey season, and although Logan had never followed the sport before, he'd jumped at Carlos's tentative invitation that Logan should join him at a local sports bar.

The game was gearing up and some clips from the previous season were flashing across the many televisions. Logan had been watching without really paying attention, not reading the words across the bottom of the screen. He hadn't caught the player's name, only seeing the large 13 on the back of his jersey, and Logan lost it. The heart stuttered as though trying to break free from the housing of his flesh, bile rising in his throat as his stomach rocked like an angry ocean. He barely made it to the restroom before he was heaving, exhaustion overwhelming him as all he could do was hold on to the filthy toilet to keep from falling over. He realized he was sobbing, gulping in air, the - now familiar - feelings of guilt and regret hitting him with the strength of a tsunami.

Carlos found him unconscious five minutes later.

Rejection sucks, especially when it's by an essential organ.

"Physically, I'm fine, I think," Logan starts. "At least all my tests indicate I am. I'm back into the routine of things. I'm just feeling...unsettled? I think that's the right word for it."

"You know as well as I do that's normal," Dr. Graves says. "Have you considered any of the support groups for other recipients?"

"No, I haven't." Logan doesn't, not even in the least little bit, want to go into a room full of strangers and talk about how he feels haunted. He doesn't want to share the strange emotions and flashes and dreams. He knows how it sounds. The truth is, Logan is fairly certain he's going a little crazy, because it's impossible what he's experiencing. It's in his head, all of it.

"What about private therapy?" the doctor asks.

Logan shakes his head fiercely. "I don't need that," he replies. And he truly believes he doesn't, not in the practical sense. No one needs to know the oddities he's experiencing. Word gets out he's gone off the deep end and he'll be a laughing stock for sure, put himself and his job at risk. He'll have none of that - this problem he will handle on his own.

"It's okay to need help, Logan. Sometimes, I think, as doctors we forget we're fallible. After all this, I'd think you'd be one of the first to realize that very thing. Your mental health is as important as your physical. Are you sure you'll be alright?"

No. "Yes, I'll be just fine. Now how about those scripts for my new meds?"

~oOo~

Logan feels exhausted by the time he makes it home with his new prescriptions. He's tried his best to avoid thinking about how strange he's feeling. The strangeness comes and goes. Some days he feels the same as he always has, but most days he's antsy, keyed-up, on edge. The conversation with Dr. Graves resulted in today being one of the bad days.

If Logan is being honest with himself, the sensation of being lost is becoming nearly impossible to shake.

As an analytical mind, Logan has tried his best to put a finger on what triggers strange reactions from the heart, and it's endlessly frustrating when he can't find a specific pattern: a copse filled with lady's slippers he stumbled upon during a hike, a waft of cologne when walking past a department store. The only thing that always hits him like a ton of bricks is anything and everything to do with hockey, but Logan has been avoiding the sport like the plague, despite the heart urging him not to. He isn't sure he can bear it much longer, but what can he do?

Sometimes he tries to explain to the heart how it needs him as much as he needs it. Those are the moments he feels truly insane, head bowed and staring at the flesh of his chest and whispering. He speaks in quick sentences, asking the damn thing to belong to him, be his instead of someone else's. At times, Logan lies on the flat of his back, watching the slight disturbance of skin and muscle as the heart pounds in his chest. He draws circles around it with an index finger, writes his name in invisible ink.

It might work an hour or two.

Despite being emotionally drained, Logan can't rest, so he strips off his too-hot clothes and decides a shower might relax him. He stops at the mirror - as he frequently does now - eyes zeroing in on the straight line chiseled into his chest. He presses his palm against the scar, not too harshly, before tracing the line with all his fingers. It's smooth and shiny but dark red, like a purse-lipped smile.

Logan trains his gaze on his face, taking in his unruly dark-brown hair, the lines of his jaw, the near-black of his iris. The heart lurches, as it does often when Logan inspects himself. Whether it be in protest, confusion or denial, he doesn't know. Not that it matters since Logan is desperately trying to convince himself these reactions are from his brain alone.

He stands in the shower until the water turns cold and he can't feel his body. He laughs to himself when he realizes the sensation makes him as physically disjointed from his body as the heart has made him feel mentally. He shuts off the shower with a numb, trembling hand, dresses and makes his way outside to the back porch.

Logan's house is nowhere near large, but it does sit on a fair bit of land. Instead of opting for a huge, fancy house as so many other doctors seem to do, Logan only wanted something private. He tends to avoid human interaction in a personal setting. People are unpredictable, unstable creatures, and he's seen too many sour relationships firsthand. Logan doesn't ever, ever make friends on purpose. Carlos had been a complete accident.

He's far enough away from the city so he can watch the starlight come out a point at a time, warm light spilling through the patio doors. It's humid out, being nearly August, and Logan sprawls out on the long wooden swing, letting the leftover heat from the sun seep into his skin. He sighs and tries to visualize the tension of the day sinking below the horizon with the last residual rays of daylight.

Logan closes his eyes.

The sun glints off the remainders of hard-packed snow, green grass fighting its way upwards and promising warmer days. The air is crisp and cool and his cheeks are numb. He's running, leaping over exposed tree roots with practiced agility, his face hurting from a grin that feels permanent.

"You'll never catch me!" he shouts, breathless and panting. The sound of footsteps behind him grows in intensity, and he takes a moment to look over his shoulder. His companion is merely feet behind and gaining. He laughs and turns back to the path in front of him, but it's too late to keep from tripping over some jagged rocks on the trail. There's barely a second to act, but he's able to put out his palms and brace himself, saving all but his right palm from injury.

His pursuer crashes into him, both of them falling on the damp ground in a tangle of limbs.

"Are you okay?" his companion asks, laughing and breathing quickly. He rolls over to look at the person who knocked him down, but the features are blurry, the voice speaking sounding far away.

He holds up his hand, dirty and bloody, but he still smiles despite the injury.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," the person says, reaching out and pressing down on the cut across his palm with two thumbs.

"Battle scars," he answers.

Logan wants to see his companions face, but the sun is so bright, all he can make out is the strong line of a jaw, a hint of pink in the curve of a smile. There's this desperate feeling; he needs to see this person again, but this has nothing to do with Logan.

He looks over his companion's shoulder, suddenly keenly aware of the way they are pressed together, a feeling familiar and foreign and dangerous. There's this push and pull and he wants to wrap arms around this person who is a stranger but not. His heart knows the other.

"Hey, a lady's slipper," he exclaims, noticing a few of the pink orchids struggling to grow in the cold betwixt a few blades of grass and snow. He pushes the weight of his companion off of him, missing the comfort of contact as soon as they are separate. Making his way to the flowers, he plucks one and brings it to his nose.

"You shouldn't do that," the other person says. "It's illegal to take flowers from the wild when you're in a state park."

"Aw, come on. How do you know that anyway?"

"My dad told me once," comes the reply, something sorrowful coloring the words and removing the seemingly permanent grin from his face. He wants to erase the sad, blur it out with pinks and greens and spring sunshine.

"Well, here then," he says, thrusting the flower toward his companion. When it's not taken right away, he traces the petals across the other person's face, taps it against those pale pink lips, noticing the flower and the mouth are nearly the same color. Finally, he gets a chuckle.

"Tickles," he hears.

"Take it," he replies. "You're in the Wild so it's not illegal."

Begrudgingly, the flower is taken. "It is beautiful. But now it's just going to die."

"It would have eventually anyway," he answers.

"But it's so young."

"Only the good die young."

"I guess that means I'll live forever," the familiar stranger says, using a free hand to grab onto Logan's hand that isn't really his.

"Sure you will," he says, "but not because you're bad. Because you're exceptional."

The other person snorts, squeezing where they are joined, sealing together their hands in the drying blood. The heart, his heart, patters away in his chest, an intimate feeling for both Logan and non-Logan. Despite the speed, his heart feels in the right place. There's a need to resist, however; as though he hadn't know his companions lips a dozen times.

Kiss him, says the voice inside Logan's head. Tell him you love him.

But he doesn't; instead, separating their hands, clearing his throat and muttering, "It'll be dark soon."

Logan wakes up freezing, despite the humid air. The tips of his fingers, his nose, and his cheeks are numb as though he had been running through the cold. He nearly falls from the swing, stumbles towards the doors to his house, feeling disconcerted in the dark when it seemed only moments ago to be daylight.

Once he has his bearings - finding himself in the circled glow of light - he holds open his palm, inspects the previously unblemished skin for injury.

He can just barely make it out, and he tries to convince himself he's imagining it, but across his hand, making its way toward his wrist, is a rapidly fading red line, as though he'd braced himself against a fall upon something sharp.


End file.
